


Slipping

by rael_ellan



Series: A World in Words [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Anne and Constance support one another, Gen, Minor Angst, Post-Series 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 11:05:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5002354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rael_ellan/pseuds/rael_ellan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another letter, and a bad day for everyone.</p><p>  <i>Darling Constance,</i><br/><i>Every silence here is loaded and heavy. I can’t let it hang anymore, not even with Athos. It’s as though we’re always waiting for something, trapped in the calm before the storm. It’s terrible. </i><br/><i></i><br/><i>	And now it’s worse.</i><br/> </p><p>  <i>(Can be read as a stand alone)</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Slipping

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2. I don't know how many installments this series will have; I suppose as many as my brain decides on. There will be at least one more, perhaps two.
> 
> I had such a wonderful response to the first story that I'm equally as nervous about posting this.
> 
> I hope it's alright.

D’Artagnan, it turned out, was a prolific writer. Perhaps it came from wearing his heart on his sleeve, or perhaps it was simply his way of coping with the world he had found himself thrown into. After that first letter, it’s as though he can’t bear to stop himself; he has to spill his thoughts across the page, has to share every moment he can with her. 

She loves him all the more for it. 

The letters arrived at least once a week with the couriers from the various regiments, passed to her quietly by Minister Treville. They’re often a little older than she’d like, sometimes dated a full fortnight before, but personal letters were hardly a priority any more. More often than not, she gets two or three letters all at once, tied together into a neat little bundle.

It’s a curious situation all around, really. They’re _married_ , now, bound together for the rest of their lives, but it was almost as though nothing had changed. She was still dividing her time between the Queen through the day, her faithful friend and companion, and d’Artagnan at night, in her dreams and in stolen moments with his words.

Three months in and those words have become her lifeline. She reads and rereads the letters until their edges begin to wear thin, and then she gives the Queen the highlights. 

Anne, too, seemed to take delight in the letters, listening eagerly to the sections Constance wanted to read aloud and sharing the joke that was d’Artagnan’s ever fervent promise to stay out of trouble. 

She was particularly attentive whenever d’Artagnan mentioned Aramis. There was hardly ever anything new to report on that front: the remaining musketeers missed him, mostly, sometimes with an ache so very tangible that Constance can’t read it aloud. But every once in a while there’s a new story, something Porthos or Athos has shared with d’Artagnan in the evenings around the fire, or on another interminable watch duty. 

He seemed to be trying to balance it out, the pining with the humour, the light with the dark. She didn’t think he did it entirely for her benefit, either, though how he knew she read the letters to the Queen she didn’t want to guess. She’d certainly never mentioned it to him in any of her replies. Perhaps she was seeing patterns that didn’t exist, or perhaps he just knew her far too well. 

That thought made her smile. 

This time there was only one letter, which probably meant he’s spent most of the week doing something stupidly dangerous for the sake of France.

“Do you want some privacy, Constance? I’m sure I can manage by myself this evening if you’d like to retire.”

Across the room, she could almost feel Anne’s smile. _Anne_ , in private. Not ‘your majesty’ or ‘your highness’. Just Anne. She doubted that would ever truly sit right in her mind, however much she loved the Queen. 

She smiled back, a little brighter than the Queen. It had been a long, difficult day for both of them. 

There weren’t many guards left in the palace, dressed in red or in blue. The few who did remain were quiet, timid things, who bowed and scraped and acquiesced to everything. Constance doubted they would be any use, should they _truly_ be attacked. They’d probably just roll over and beg for death. And though they were far enough away that they would probably know long before anyone had the audacity to invade Paris, everyone was a little more jumpy now.

The ministers weren’t much better. 

They had found a new way to punish the Queen: the only places she was refused, now, was at the War councils and the King’s hunting parties, so they discussed the hunts as loudly as they dared before meetings, in the corridors when they passed her. 

A new favourite topic was the absence of a First Minister, which the King had apparently remarked upon in passing the day before. He, of course, had been referring to Richelieu; Rochefort’s appointment had been a mistake, and a King’s mistakes are best forgotten. Rochefort’s betrayal, as far as he was concerned, had been the fault of the Spanish. They had created the monster, they had hidden the creature within his walls, and they would answer for it with their blood. 

Rochefort’s betrayal against the Queen had been much darker. Privately, Constance doubted Anne would ever feel safe in the palace again, though she bore it well. She didn’t like to be alone.

“No, I’ll stay. I’ll only read it to you later, anyway.”

The paper was more crumpled than usual, smudged and stained where usually the paper was almost pristine. Perhaps it had been dropped at some point.

_Darling Constance,_

_I don’t really know what I want to write yet. It’s strange, I’ve thought about it for days, all the things I’ll say to you when I finally get the chance again-_

So, a _secret_ dangerous mission, Constance’s interpreted, trying not to let her heart flutter too much at the thought.

_-but now all those thousands of words are gone. I think, if I were with you, I wouldn’t be able to say anything either. I’d just ask to hold you. We’d sit there, in your rooms (or perhaps mine, I suppose, but you have a much nicer bed) in silence, just holding one another._

_I think I miss that, almost most of all._

_Every silence here is loaded and heavy. I can’t let it hang anymore, not even with Athos. It’s as though we’re always waiting for something, trapped in the calm before the storm. It’s terrible._

_And now it’s worse._

_My words haven’t just vanished, Constance. They’re still there, hidden somewhere inside me, but now every phrase falls apart in the face of what has happened._

_Porthos is gone._

On the other side of the room, sat in front of her mirror, the Queen began to hum. It was a pretty tune, light and joyous. A Spanish nursery rhyme, perhaps. 

Constance was glad of the sound; she focused in on it, let it fill her mind for a moment. 

_Gone._ Gone like Aramis? Or gone like Baux, like Lemay?

_He went on a scouting mission early yesterday morning. Simple reconnaissance, with Dujon and Allaire to support him. They should have been back by the afternoon, early evening at the very latest._

_Now it is nearly dawn. There’s been no word._

She paused for a moment to let those words settle against her heart. No word. That could mean a hundred things, really. Porthos could have missed a renezvous. He could have had to duck around a group of enemy soldiers. He could be trapped somewhere, unable to move or risk capture.

She didn’t know much about the other two names. Dujon, she thought, was one of the older musketeers, loyal to Treville and as curmudgeonly as Winter. Allaire was a new name; a fresh recruit, perhaps, or newly commissioned. In a real scrap, neither man was likely to have been much use. 

Athos can’t have thought it would be a dangerous mission, or he wouldn’t have risked it. But then, her mind asked, why send one of his best soldiers?

_Athos is beside himself with concern. And guilt, I think, but Athos always did have plenty of that. He still thinks of_ her _, I’m sure of it. I don’t really understand. She was a murderer, a monster! Yet even now, some part of him wishes she were here, to take the blame perhaps. Or to ease it._

_It’s a curious feeling, trying to think what she would do. How she would make it better. All I can come up with is stabbing someone in the eye, but somehow I don’t think that would work._

Constance huffed, amused despite herself by the incongruous image of d'Artagnan trying to put himself in Milady's shoes. 

Anne turned towards her, and this time her smile was a little more genuine.

“He’s doing well, then?”

Constance opened her mouth to reply, but the letter drew her back in, as it always did.

_Athos hasn’t slept either. We’ve just been here, waiting. Stuck. He’s been drinking all night. I should stop him. I don’t want to go to him just yet._

_I want to stay here, with you. With your silence, and your love. And your smile. I miss your smile._  


_I suppose I do understand Athos and Milady. At least a little._

“Constance?” 

Anne was by her side now, delicate hand resting against her shoulder. It was light enough to be a bird. 

_The sun has risen. I had better go and try to rouse Athos. Perhaps I can talk him into letting me go and look for Porthos again. Perhaps I can talk him into coming with me._

_I hope next time I write I will have better news for you. In the meantime, I promise I will try to stay out of trouble._

_Enjoy the day for me?_

_I love you,_

_Charles_

She turns a watery smile to the Queen - _the Queen. Her majesty the Queen, who you’ve been ignoring._

“He’s… been better.”

There’s no point lying, now. She’ll read it in Constance’s face, anyway; d’Artagnan always did have the most inconvenient way of stripping her emotions bare. 

“Porthos has gone missing. It's just him and Athos, now.”

**Author's Note:**

> I swear the next one will be happier!
> 
> As always, please feel free to leave a comment. Any help on this piece, as on the last, would be greatly appreciated.


End file.
